Joyeux Noël – Feliz Navidad – Bon Nadal – Fröhliche Weihnachten – Buon Natale – Feliz Natal – Hyvää Joulua – God Jul – Geseënde Kersfees – Chúc Giáng Sinh Vui Vẻ – क्रिसमस की बधाई – Maligayang Pasko – Mutlu Noeller – Wesołych świąt – Gut Yontif – Prettige Kerstdagen – Crăciun Fericit
Season’s greetings to you all. I’ve tried to include a message to readers from every country where I have a follower: apologies if I’ve missed you out. Though as you all speak English, maybe I didn’t need to do this. You may not celebrate Christmas: but most f us seem to have an end-of-year festiviy of some kind
Saudade is a Portuguese word, introduced to us by Egidio, who proposes it for this week’s Lens-Artists Challenge. Here’s what it means:
... an emotional state of melancholic or profoundly nostalgic longing for a beloved yet absent someone or something. It is a recollection of feelings, experiences, places, or events, often elusive, that cause a sense of separation from the exciting, pleasant, or joyous sensations they once caused.
It’s what we both feel so very often about our years in southern France, now some ten years gone. Of course we remember the landscape – the foothills, the Pyrenees themselves, the seasons, the climate , the slower pace of life …
Of course we do. But we remember even more the happy Sundays and Thursdays we had discovering these landscapes with our two local walking groups. We were the only British members, and how different these expeditions were from their English equivalents. After a morning slogging up a mountain, we were rewarded with views, perhaps a stream, a wild-flower strewn meadow. Then Marcel the butcher would produce his own home-cured sausage; Sylvie offered her daughter’s sheep’s milk cheese; someone would bring bread; Yvette and I brought cake; wine was on offer, and an apéro, and after that someone or other would hand out sugar lumps, on which to drip just a little of their grandfather’s special home-confected digestif. After a nice long rest, we’d pack up and find a different path downwards.
Eating was at the heart of so many activities. Here’s another community meal, tables ranged over the town square so everyone could get together and enjoy each other’s company while celebrating some local highlight..
In fact enjoyment came high on everyone’s agenda. Every July, for instance, in a small village a few miles from ours, a group of volunteers spend months devising Le Jardin Extraordinaire. People come from miles around to enjoy strolling through bowers confected from still-growing gourds, and climbing upwards through woodlands with surprises: beautiful, silly, witty – every year was different.
Then there was the annual firework display on the lake at Puivert, which took the concept of fireworks to a whole new level. It reduced the audience of 1000 or more, who’d all come with families, friends and the makings of a fine picnic to astonished silence as the spectacle ended, before simultaneously roaring their tumultuous appeciation of the astonishing creations set before our eyes.
Our French friends taught us about ‘au cas où‘: the need to have with you at all times a bag or similar ‘just in case‘ you found walnuts, wild cherries, sweet chestnuts, mushrooms – all sorts of food-for-free for the thrify householder. I was au cas où–ing only yesterday, finding crab apples, pears, apples, mirabelles all there for the taking, just as our French friends recommended.
I’ll stop there. The feelings of longing, of saudade are strong …
Ripon Theatre Festival this last weekend: and Saturday and Sunday brought street performances and spectacles all over town. Best of all was that despite the incessant rain and intermittent thunder we were threatened with, not a drop fell while we were all out and about enjoying ourselves (and performing too, in the case of choirs like mine). But. What a cheek! Hardly anyone was decked out in red! I’m relying on photos from previous years to plug the Red Gap.
If the Dominic Cummings bench last week was a bit scary, what about this one? It was part of last year’s Scarecrow Competition in a local village last summer, and represents I guess, our King and his Consort.
Apparently, His Majesty can’t afford any shoes ….
For Jude’s Bench Challenge. (Sorry, Jude, I’m away, so this post is scheduled, and making use of a previous link)
We were in York with the grandchildren on Monday. Its annual Viking Festival has begun.
Norsemen from Scandinavia went looking for places to settle, often in England and Ireland from about CE 800 to CE 1000. Like the Romans before them, many settled in the fertile lands round York. We came to find out more. We looked at demonstrations of working with wool. We attended a Brassica Massacre, where no hapless human was harmed as a doughty ‘Viking’ explained the ways to win in hand-to-hand fighting, by killing a cabbage impaled on a spike. And we chatted to a ‘Viking’ potter, as he worked away in freezing conditions to throw a simple pot.
Later, we were chuffed to bits to discover that the same master who had enslaved a willing William for twenty minutes or so last year was back again. This time Zoë couldn’t wait to have a go, and The Boss thought that if she came from the same stock as her brother, he couldn’t turn her down. After she’d swept the floor (inadequately), he set her onto a spot of woodturning – with his help. Many hands make light work.
Then he set about making Zoë a wooden medallion to thank her – and enlisted her help again. He was a good-humoured and generous master.
We had an excellent time. But we were pleased to retreat afterwards in our cosy modern clothing to a cosy house, and the comforts of 21st century living.
The header photograph shows hand-to-hand fighting in York – last year.
Did you know that the Three Kings who brought gifts to the baby Jesus arrived in a ship? No, neither did I till this evening. Look.
They’ve already done what they had to do by visiting the Christ child. Now here they are approaching Premià de Mar, preparing to bring gifts tonight to all the good children in town. The ship flies the (geometric) flag of Saint George, patron saint of Catalonia. And the port itself is geometric enough, with the masts of so many sailing ships as a foil to the choir singing to welcome the three monarchs.
Later, they put in an appearance at the town square, then processed round the town. I have better (I hope) photos of the event on my camera, but for now, let’s make do with a few mobile phone snapshots – and not very geometric at that. Not so much of the kings, but of their elephants; drummers; coal wagons (naughty children get coal, not presents); post-people receiving letters written by hopeful children. Pictures of the kings, of the distributors of sweets, and other assorted bits of fun will have to wait for another day.
Those yarn bombers in Thirsk always have something new to show us. And now of course, it’s time to celebrate the Christmas season. So Happy Christmas from me too. I may or may not post next week, so I’ll get the good wishes in early.
So on Friday, I went along with friends from Masham Photographic Club to be an unashamed paparazza. The atmosphere was upbeat and friendly, and those who’d gone to so much trouble to find their costumes and dress up actively sought out opportunities to have their picture taken. There was even a baby … and the oldest were well into their eighties. I felt distinctly underdessed in my workaday trousers and jacket.
An excellent day was had by all: especially after a large plate of tasty fish and chips.
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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